


If I Could Take This Pain From You (You Know I Would)

by unintentionalgenius



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Depression, Gen, M/M, Reality, WIP, still not sure if it's slash or not, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:49:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unintentionalgenius/pseuds/unintentionalgenius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is raped, and John is left to pick up the pieces and help both of them heal.<br/>WIP</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Long author’s note, ahoy!  
> I promise they won’t all be this bad.  
> So here’s the deal. This fic serves two main purposes: aside from being the story that won’t leave my head, it’s my response to the trope of using rape as a plot device, until Character A meets Character B and suddenly this terrible, traumatic experience is all better.   
> Bullshit. (I should mention, lots of language will be occurring herein.)  
>  I intend to be as realistic as possible in my portrayal of the emotional and psychological effects of rape. If you have an issue with my realism (aka you see something you doubt the realism of, etc.) feel free to comment about it; I’d love to engage in discussion and I welcome concrit.  
> The other reason this fic exists is because I needed a coping mechanism for the feelings I have about the rape and subsequent struggles of my best friend. I do not claim that there is anything in Sherlock of her, or of me in John, or vice versa, so if one of them says something it does not mean I believe it. I thought that would be common knowledge but enough people put it in ANs that it must not be. Please do not make assumptions about us based on these characters.   
> This is not only a response to people who suck at realizing that rape is real and traumatic, however well-meaning they may be, but it’s also me working through a lot of feelings I have about these traumas.   
> All that said, this is very much a WIP, and I’m a lazy sod, so I make no promises about updating every week or any of that rubbish (not that authors who do are rubbish, just that I’m not very good at that.) I wish I were the sort who could update weekly, without fail. But no such luck.  
> Insert all usual disclaimers here; beta’d but not britpicked, so if you spot any mistakes, don’t hesitate to let me know. Reviews on this would make me a very happy writer girl. If you’ve read this far, thank you so much, and enjoy the story, but be warned: horrific amounts of angst ensue, as well as massively triggering content. Keep an eye on the tags for updates on that, but I can assure you that herein lies cutting, rape, suicidal thoughts/suicide ideation, and depression.  
> Many thanks to my absolutely perfect beta, ongreenergrasses. I’m lucky to call her my friend, and so grateful that she pushed me to write this when I was talking myself out of it.

_It's dark, which is strange, because last he remembers it was definitely daytime. Some time when it was brightly lit. Midday? He was working a case, trailing leads across London, out to the rougher neighborhoods and back. He’ll send an occasional text to John; it’s his one concession to someone that worried about his wellbeing. Of course, the case had consumed him, leaving him unaware of the passage of time. Maybe it was a Wednesday? No, a Tuesday. Or Thursday? Had Friday happened yet? Sometimes he lost track, nothing terribly out of the ordinary about that. What’s out of the ordinary is that here, now, whenever ‘_ now’ _is, the dark is a little blurry around the edges, which should technically be impossible. He'd prefer to roll over, but something is stopping him, one force pushing him into the earth below and another, even stronger, holding his body still like it's iron and the ground is the strongest magnet ever made. It would be quite nice to at least push up off the ground, or at least adjust the way he's laying, because he's belly down and his face is sort of smushing into the asphalt a bit. He can't quite feel all of his extremities either, and all these sensations are combining to feel sort of familiar, something he can half-remember…_

_Ah. Drugs. Yes. They slowed him down, brought him to the pace of the rest of the planet. But never this much, never this strong; he feels exceptionally slow at the moment. When had his back started hurting? And his arse? If he'd fallen, he'd have broken his nose the way he's laying, not his tailbone, even in his current state he knows that much. And there’s cold, a breeze, where clothing should definitely cover. Voices are slowly filtering in, two or three of them. They sound so far away. He blearily opens his eyes, blinks once, twice, at the boot in front of his face. It's bent oddly, contorted weirdly, and it takes him much too long to realize it's because the owner is in a squat straddling his head, hands on his shoulders, pressing down. The pain is suddenly almost unbearable. And if they're medical personnel, why isn't there more activity? Shouldn't there be flashing lights, slightly panicked voices and - John! There should definitely be a John Watson somewhere here._

_He feels his face start to rub against the asphalt slightly, abrading his cheek and temple. He wishes whoever is rocking him would stop it, because it's making his insides hurt too, like someone is trying to tear him up from the inside out by filling him full of things that shouldn’t be there, and there's something sort of sticky and hot running down his legs, but it has no right to be, because he definitely left the house wearing pants and trousers, so his legs aren't bare. But they are, and he can feel the stickiness of it, and smell metal and sweat. He can also feel touches, sensations where they shouldn’t be and, quite frankly, where he doesn’t want them. The pain is bad enough that he feels tears running down his face, mixing with the abrasions, saltwater making them sting but the rest of him hurts so badly that's not even registering. There's a heavy weight on him, on top of him, making it hard to breathe, and his brain still feels like it's too heavy, filled with lead and still trying to maneuver. Lead wool._

_He feels like vomiting but he can't seem to make his mouth form the words to tell whoever these people are, give them some warning or ask them to stop. (No, not ask; demand it.) He wants to vomit a little more every time he is pushed forward. With every jolt, his insides protest and he feels like something's being ripped and torn, shredding inside him. He's starting to feel vulnerable, to feel like this isn't who he guessed (it was a guess, there are no deductions when your brain is wrapped in a wool fog, a haze of drugs and pain) and if it isn't who he thought it was it means it's probably someone he doesn't want seeing him vulnerable. He's struck with an overwhelming desire for John, to see him or hear his voice or, if the gods are smiling on him, feel his touch, something comforting and not painful, not like this. His shoulders are shaking, he can feel it because the man's hands press down, and his face is shaking, because on top of the_ back-forth _of his movement, there's a barely perceptible_ up-down _as well. He thinks (and it takes him a while) that his whole body must be shaking because it's unlikely that such localized tremors would occur. From cold or pain, he doesn't really know. Is he in shock? He's been in shock before, so he’d know the symptoms, but he wasn't on drugs then. He thinks it's a little cold, but only because he feels the liquid on his thighs and arse drying and it's cool there, cooler than everywhere else, but his body feels like it’s on fire and he doesn't like it, everything about this feels wrong but he's moving too slowly, mentally, to figure out **why**. He twitches his fingers, and is surprised he can. It at least means he's not paralyzed, so why can't he get up now, and finally he vomits, completely unexpectedly. He hears angry words but they're not making it down to him, they're far away in their own world through a distant haze and this doesn't seem like a good thing, there’s an angry tone to them, but he can't for the life of him figure on why. He wants to be taken away, wants John to come for him, wrap him in a blanket and carry him back to Baker Street, to _ home _, to_ safe _. If John were here, nothing could hurt him. John is, somehow, associated with safety. Where is John?_

 _And like he summoned him with his thoughts, he can hear a set of voices, angry, but one a different anger, almost as familiar, maybe Lestrade? But John, certainly John, and could the idiot just come and pick him up already, wrap him in his arms where surely it was warm, John's body heat radiated like a furnace and he was understating it earlier, he is so cold. But John was not forthcoming. Why hadn’t John appeared yet? The world shifts, a weight literally is removed from his shoulders; John’s voice, angry, cold. Not fire but ice. Words spoken the way the world will end. A second weight is gone, more slowly, but not slowly enough; every time he moves, it hurts, and this man leaving him hurts, even as much as he wanted it to happen. (Which is to say, desperately.) Something twists its way out of him, a high-pitched whimper, and his insides don't hurt the same way anymore, but the pain is just as much and more, building now, like his body is starting to realize it hasn't been dealing him the full hurt that he's actually experienced so not only does it need to give him everything, it should also catch him up on what he's missed. He thinks he hears someone say_ John _, and he's glad that he's gotten one thing right tonight, that the one thing he was certain about, the thing that he wanted, is real and happening._

 _That train of thought is interrupted by strong hands, gentle and warm and familiar doctor’s hands making their way over his body, a check for injuries. Head, neck, shoulders, ribcage… They stutter as they reach his hips, and continue a little more slowly, even more gently. He wishes John would just_ hold _him already, the concrete wasn't getting any warmer and all he wanted was soft and warm, so please, John? And **yes** , John could hear his thoughts, because he moved arms under him and lifted, rolling him, proving just how off his equilibrium was because the world, dim as it was, started to swim, and all he heard was the concerned voice of his doctor telling someone off, that he had this well in hand, and maybe he just caught his name as well before slipping off into total nothingness, blessed oblivion._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how I feel about this one, kiddos. I definitely don't feel as confident in it as I did the last chapter. I may come back at a later date and edit it a little more. I just sort of wanted it out there and in cyberspace so that I was required to legitimately focus on chapter three rather than perfecting this one to the point of insanity.  
> And there's another style of A/N I never thought I'd write: the apologetic "I don't like this chapter, it sort of sucks" type. Well, never say never.  
> Share your thoughts on the merits and problems of this chapter?

John doesn’t just have nightmares of Afghanistan, now. Sometimes, they are of Sherlock. In those, he’s often (but not always) face down, prone, like the night John wishes he had shot Sherlock’s two assailants [ _bastards_ ] when he had the chance, and Sherlock is whimpering John’s name like a prayer he doesn’t know he’s saying, same as that night. Maybe it was a prayer. One John answered like an avenging, wrathful god. In those nightmares, John always shoots (like he wishes he had) and he always, always misses (like he’d never, ever do) - not by much, but by enough. His hands are shaking, like saving Sherlock (again) isn’t enough adrenaline, and he can’t hold the gun steady for anything, so he’s paralyzed just shooting and shooting and missing while the entire time he can hear Sherlock so well it’s like he’s inside his head: “John, John.” And there’s blood. More than there ever was in reality, but this is a dreamscape, so they’re all drowning in it, the man holding Sherlock down red up to the elbows and from the waist down, the second man [ _rapist_ ] literally covered in his blood, and John, somehow John has Sherlock’s blood on his hands, and he always wakes up thinking _if that’s not a metaphorical message from your subconscious, John Hamish Watson, then I don’t know what is._

            The worst thing, John thinks on the mornings after these nightmares, rubbing imaginary blood from his hands as he steeps two cups of tea, is that he can’t even be absolved of the guilt he knows, logically, he shouldn’t feel. (Tell that to his heart, the one that broke that night. Sherlock was a creature never meant to be laid low. He should have been protected. John should have been doing the protecting.) The one person other than himself that might grant that dispensation, even if he thought it pedestrian and unnecessary, has no memory of any of it. Wiped it from his hard drive, as he’d say, if anyone had asked. (No one had. You don’t just go up to a rape victim and start asking questions about an event so traumatic they involuntarily repressed it.) Even Sherlock knew that it was _a bit not good_ without needing to be told. That is, he would’ve known had the situation presented itself. So everyone walks on eggshells, no, on bubble wrap, but at least everyone is spared the trauma of a trial and having to remind Sherlock of what happened, because Lestrade came by the hospital the next morning to apologize. The two men they arrested just hours earlier seem to never have existed. Vanished from their cells, any trace of their lives eliminated. Odd, that.  So now there’s no chance of facing a trial, and it’s just a matter of waiting for the physical wounds to heal. A few weeks and everything’s back to normal.

Except John knows invisible scars when he sees them (he shares them) and he knows that Sherlock’s bodily healing is the least of anyone’s worries.

 

These are the thoughts that consume him as he finishes making two cups of tea and two slices of toast. Spreading a thin layer of jam onto both (“Dammit, Sherlock Holmes, you need the fucking calories, alright?”), he carries it all, cups in his hands and plate in the crook of his elbow, to Sherlock, who just this morning was upgraded from bed-rest to couch-rest. This happened more or less because he was well enough that John physically could not force him to remain in bed any longer, broken ankle and cracked ribs be damned. (Sometimes when Sherlock walks, he winces, and John wonders if the pain is coming from somewhere other than his ankle, but he never asks.) Of course, getting out of bed does not in any way, shape, form, or fashion indicate that the lazy git is well enough to make his own bloody breakfast, so his oh-so-kind-and-wonderful flatmate and live-in doctor does it for him. John sets one cup of tea down on the table beside his chair and takes the toast and other mug to Sherlock, who has a table set up by the sofa so that he has to move as little as possible. John thanks an entire pantheon of gods, any that will listen, that Sherlock, recently taken off the pain meds that clouded his thinking abilities, can shower by himself now. He’s not sure how convincing his poker face would be when faced with Sherlock’s advanced knowledge of his psychology (see: Sherlock’s ability to guess John’s computer password within a minute) and his extraordinary deductive abilities, especially when used on someone he knows well. The last thing he wants to do is trigger some soul-searching or further deducing of Sherlock’s injuries and have him remember what he repressed. Not that it’s necessarily a healthy way of coping, but hell, John will absolutely take what he can get at this point. Who wouldn’t?

When Sherlock doesn’t react to his tea after a few minutes, John calls his name: “Sherlock.”

No response. A little louder. “Sherlock.”

He jerks awake violently, responding to a perceived threat and nearly falling off the couch, correcting at the last second. After he recovers, he tries to feign nonchalance and John can’t help but laugh. He buries the niggling little voice that says “rape trauma syndrome”. His inner devil’s advocate justifies it with “Can you even have rape trauma syndrome if you don’t remember it?”

“I brought tea.”

“I had, in fact, noticed. I have retained full use of my sense of vision, if you’ll notice. I’m told you attended medical school, so it shouldn’t be too difficult for you to draw the correct conclusions regarding my sensory abilities.”

“Yes Sherlock, I’m aware, you want more pain pills. You will not be getting them, no matter how much snark you send my way.”

Taking a piece of toast, Sherlock ‘hmph!’s and flops to face the back of the couch. He only barely suppresses a groan of pain from putting too much pressure on healing ribs, and John would chuckle if it weren’t so pathetic. It’s good to hear him munching on the toast; it’s a good sign. If he can force him to eat semi-normally, he might actually heal within a normal timeframe. Until then, however, they’re stuck inside 221B. Navigating a flight of stairs with Sherlock is no picnic, and John’s not eager to try again. Any cases that are to be solved in the next 6 to 8 weeks will be done with Sherlock decidedly _within_ the flat. (John’s location, however, is up for debate, not that he’s aware of it yet. Sherlock decided almost immediately to handle any new cases the way they handled the car backfire computer porn addict oh hullo, we’re in Buckingham Palace and Sherlock isn’t wearing pants case: namely, via webcam.) John has taken a leave of absence and is more hoping than knowing that his job will still be there when he gets back. Mycroft, that morning in the hospital, offered to hire someone. A live-in nurse or something. John turned him down. He wasn’t there for Sherlock when he had been needed most; that would never happen again.

            He’s torn from the dual contemplation of Sherlock’s pain and his own guilt (and subsequent feeding-up of Sherlock) by the sound of a knock on the doorframe of the flat.

            “’Lo. Figured I’d bring by some cold cases, see if Sherlock can help us out and save your sanity, John, at the same time.” Lestrade always did try to help, but at the moment the look of intense pity and worry on his face is more unhelpful than any cases offered up in concern for John’s wellbeing. At a disapproving look from John, he schools his expression a bit better, and walks into the center of the room, throwing the case files down onto Sherlock’s stomach in a bad approximation of casual, everyday interaction. Sherlock jerks, overreaction apparent, and winces. He broadcasts a general aura of “I hate everything”, not deigning to speak to Lestrade. Flopping onto his side and ignoring the spasm of pain it causes, he turns his back to the rest of the room and, with it, Lestrade and the fallen case files, contents now fluttering down over the floor of the flat. The overworked DI just sighs and walks back out, throwing John a parting look of exasperation tinged with concern. John just shrugs it off and begins to collect the fallen papers. Honestly, Sherlock is like a toddler sometimes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! You have now reached the end of what I had pre-written. And I move to college in two weeks. But I'll do my best to update regularly ish, and I promise, whatever happens, this isn't abandoned.  
> Gah, that sounds more like a line from a B-rated romance flick than an author's note.


End file.
